


Not Repairable

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Determination, Episode Related, Gen, post SR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 01:14:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20806070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: Can the Torino be saved?





	Not Repairable

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd and unedited, this story sprang from the Friday fiction prompt phrase, "I don't think this can be repaired," on the Starsky&Hutch Fans&FanFiction FaceBook page yesterday, 9/27/2019. Thanks for the idea, Paula.

I am Merl the Earl. I am an _artiste!_ But can I work miracles? I jus’ don’ know. 

The tow company had dropped it off this morning and my boys an’ I had gathered ‘round. We’d worked on it a buncha times, o’ course - even brought it back from damn near disaster after that bomb - but this?

“It’s hopeless,” muttered my best man, Clayton. “Ain’t it, Merl?”

My throat was so tight I couldn’t answer and, one by one, my boys drifted away. They had work to do, and prob’ly knew I needed to grieve alone. If the tomato was hurt this bad, how could Starsky be alive? The newspapers said he’d taken three slugs through the chest, had survived hours and hours of surgery and a Code Blue. He and my favorite automotive work of art must be a matched set. 

“I don’t think this can be repaired.”

Surprised and, for some reason, instantly angry, I spun around and faced the man who’d spoken. “An’ jus’ who the hell are you t’ be sayin’ somethin’ like that?”

Apparently not intimidated by my tone, he stuck out his hand. “Alvin Chelmsford. Chief adjuster for Detective Starsky’s automobile insurance company.” 

When someone offers to shake hands, you automatically respond but I immediately wished I’d resisted the impulse. His palm was sweaty and his short, blunt fingers barely touched mine before he withdrew and stepped back. It was as if he wanted to get this obligation over with as soon as possible. I usually try not jump to conclusions about people but this guy was pissin’ me off without half tryin’.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he continued, his high-pitched voice grating on my raw nerves. “I need to judge the damage for myself. I can already see it’s worse than I imagined, though.” He began to walk around the car slowly, a bulging briefcase dangling from a pudgy hand. He was about my height but must have outweighed me by a hundred pounds. Insurance adjusting obviously wasn’t a job that burned fat.

I stood where I was and watched him make one complete circuit and then begin again. Something in his attitude made me straighten my back and square my shoulders. He may already have written off Starsky’s wheels but I was now bound and determined to prove the officious little asshole wrong.

After his second walk-around, Chelmsford slapped his briefcase onto the Torino’s riddled hood and reached for the clasps.

I lunged forward and grabbed the thing out of his hands. “Don’t put that there, you’ll scratch the paint!”

His jaw dropped open. “You… you can’t be serious.” 

If I hadn’t been so mad, I might have laughed at his expression. Instead, I shoved the case into his arms, moving him away from the car. “You don’t know me, Mr. Chelmsford, so I’ll forgive your mistake. Believe me when I tell you that this ain’t my jokin’ face!”

By now, a few of my boys had gathered around us and Chelmsford lost some of his bluster. 

I took one step toward him and he stumbled back the same distance. “Here’s what you’re gonna do, Mr. Chief Insurance Adjuster…” I kept walking forward and he continued to step backward. He probably didn’t realize it but I was herding him toward the gates, my guys all following. “You’re going to go back to your office and come up with a very generous figure to pay Mr. Starsky. Then you’re going to write a check and send it to him.”

“But… but… he’s dead.” Chelmsford seemed confused. “They told me he died.”

“Maybe he did,” I said, keeping a tight rein on my fury - I really wanted to throttle this guy. “But my sources say he came back.” I gestured toward the briefcase he still clutched to his chest. “So he’s gonna need the money you’re gonna send him.” I jerked a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the Torino. “As for Detective Starsky’s ride? You give up too easy. I am Merl the Earl and that Torino will be alive and well just as soon as my friend is ready to drive it!”

“You are certifiable,” Chelmsford grumbled as he turned away and headed toward his vehicle.

“I prob’ly am, you fat little worm, which means you should pay attention to what I’m sayin’. You better write a very generous check to Detective Starsky.”

Chelmsford stopped in his tracks and puffed up like a bantam rooster. “Are you threatening me?”

I waited a few seconds, as if considering the question, before glancing around at my grinning employees. When I looked back at the insurance man, my gaze held no humor. 

It didn’t take two heartbeats before Chelmsford broke. He threw his case into the car and piled in after it. His sedate sedan wasn’t capable of burning rubber but it wasn’t for the lack of Chelmsford’s trying.

Clayton touched my arm. “Did you mean it? We’re gonna try to fix the tomato?”

I turned and put my arms across the shoulders of my two best men, Clayton and Roger. “We’re not jus’ gonna try, fellas, we’re gonna work a miracle.”

*******

We stripped her down to the frame, got replacements for the pieces bullets had compromised, scoured junkyards for doors, fenders and a hood - I didn’t want my finest achievement to be mostly Bondo. The engine had fared better but it still required a lot of work and new parts. 

My boys never complained about the long hours, they stayed past quitting time and didn’t ask for O.T. The check Chelmsford had sent and Hutch had deposited didn’t come close to covering my expenses but Hutchinson told me he’d cover whatever the insurance company didn’t. I’ll let him pay for some of it, but not all. The restoration of this beauty is gonna be my best work, ever, and I’m payin’ my share.

Hutch kept us updated about Starsky’s progress. For a whole week he didn’t come by ‘cause Starsky’d developed an infection but m’ man fought through it and made it out the other side. 

Finally, every part and piece was in place and I moved the strange-looking multi-colored assemblage into the paint shop. There, for two weeks, Clayton reigned supreme as he applied coat after coat of Candy Apple Red to our recreation. After the white stripe and black edging had thoroughly dried, Clay put the wheels back on and backed the finished product out of the building.

Everyone in the whole neighborhood had known what we were doing and they descended on my yard at lunch time, oohing and aahing. 

The intense red glistened as if the paint was three feet deep, and the gleaming white stripe appeared to glow. 

Clayton and I changed our grubby overalls for as-clean-as-we-owned jeans, t-shirts and jackets and drove to the hospital. 

Hutch knew we were coming and had arranged with the staff to have Starsky, in a wheelchair, out on the sundeck over the main entrance. As we pulled into the driveway and stopped in plain view of the balcony, I saw Starsky’s face light up with a smile that put the sun to shame.

Hutch, standing right behind, with his hands on Starsky’s shoulders, had a grin to match.

Not repairable, my ass! I am Merl the Earl! I am _artiste!_

END


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